


dearg mar mo chroí fuil

by neonheartbeat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clumsiness, Cunnilingus, F/M, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Off-screen Relationship(s), Overstimulation, Post-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:43:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8621416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonheartbeat/pseuds/neonheartbeat
Summary: Steve's getting used to his new body and all its endless possibilities. Peggy is more than willing to help him discover some truly marvelous things about it.





	

He didn't belong in this body.

That was what Steve Rogers thought as he stood on a Brooklyn quay, soaked to the bone and staring down at the slabs of muscle that were completely foreign but were somehow _him_.

He'd expected to feel different, of course—but he'd never imagined it would feel like this. His skin was too sensitive, his body impossibly huge, and—everyone's hands on his skin as he'd emerged wet and gasping for air from the metal cocoon had been like—well, he didn’t quite know.

He'd thought he was going to faint, and then Peggy—Agent Carter—had stepped in grasping his shirt, her anxious and wide dark eyes taking him in from head to toe, and he'd stood straight and tried his hardest to brush it off.

Now that the adrenaline of the chase and fight was wearing off, he felt overlarge and very clumsy. The hands were wrong, the feet too big, the chest too wide—he nearly knocked Carter over twice on the way back to the waiting car and banged his head getting into the back seat, which stung a little more than he'd expected.

She pressed her lips together and tried to look away. "You'll get used to it," she said, as if she could read his mind. "It will take time."

"It doesn't feel right," he said helplessly, and stole a sideways look at her—he'd never noticed how bright her lips were painted, how they contrasted with the dark chestnut sheen of her hair and the creamy curve of her cheek and jaw.  _Oh, right. Colorblindness. Not a thing anymore._  Steve took a deep breath, letting himself be surprised at how easy it was, and looked at his hands.

He wondered if he would still be able to draw; if the fingers he didn't recognize in front of him had kept all the technique he'd built into the bones and tendons over the years.

"We'll take you back to the SSR base and give you a medical exam," Carter said. "You should adjust quickly. Don't worry."

*

The medical exam at base was very thorough. Steve spent most of it in his skivvies on a table blushing down to his chest every time a nurse so much as looked at his bare arms with any modicum of appreciation.

His blood pressure, vitals, heart, lungs, and eyes were perfect, if not better than perfect. His muscle reflex was phenomenal. All in all, he was a basically flawless super-soldier, exactly like the late Dr. Erskine has promised.

If only he could manage to stop accidentally breaking things.

"Just sit there and don't move," someone in a white coat had gently advised him after he'd broken the handle off the door and knocked a tray off a table, scattering instruments across the tile. He'd complied, embarrassed. And now he sat, painfully shy and withdrawn from the medical personnel.

He was thinking about Erskine, and the schnapps they'd never shared.

He was thinking about two shots to the heart and the look in the eyes of a dying man.

The door opened and Agent Carter stepped through. "I hear you've been wreaking havoc on the door—Steve?"

"Agent," he said, vaguely aware of the heat in his eyes and the lump in his throat.

"Out," said Peggy crisply to the nurse, who quickly left, shutting the loose door behind her. Once it was shut, Peggy crossed the floor and laid a hand on Steve's shoulder. "It's not your fault," she said kindly.

"Yeah. You say that but—if I had jumped in front, seen the guy—if I'd—"

"Steve." Her hand tightened. "He would have been inconsolable if he'd lost you."

"You could have made more serum," he said thickly. "There's a million more guys who'd've jumped at this."

"But there's only one Steve Rogers," she said, and cleared her throat before opening her file. "You're at the peak of health. I believe they may want to draw some blood, perhaps later this week. You're to remain here and try to get used to yourself."

"Might take a while," he said, and looked up at her. "Still can't figure out how to open doors."

She chuckled. "Very, very carefully."

*

The third night, Steve rounded a corner down near the mess hall and collided with Peggy. It was an honest mistake—he simply wasn't paying attention to how fast he was going and bowled her right over, knocking her flat and scattering the large amount of papers she was carrying.

"Damn! I mean, darn, uh, sorry, I'm so sorry, Agent, Peggy, I mean—" he babbled, crimson to the ears as he got down on his knees and tried to gather her papers.

She slowly sat up with a dazed look on her face, her features crumpling slowly in pain. "Bloody hell," she swore, cupping the back of her head where it had collided with the floor. Her fingers came away stained pink.

"Are you—is that—Jesus, Peggy, I'm so sorry—"

"It's fine, it's fine. My files—"

"Let me get some ice for your head," Steve said as he tucked the gathered stack of files under his arm and helped her up as slowly and carefully as he could. "You okay?"

"Going to have one hell of a headache in the morning." She gripped his arm and kept her hand pressed to the back of her head.

"Medical office is closed," he said, worried.

"Don't bother with that. My quarters are down with the other officers. Hall C. Room 201. Ice is in the icebox in the mess hall, get some and I'll meet you in my quarters." She winced as she let go.

Steve hurried to the icebox in the mess hall, mentally chastising himself the whole way there, and wrapped a chunk of ice in a dishcloth before hurrying down to Hall C and knocking gently on the door of room 201.

"Come in," Peggy called, and he opened the door to see her sparsely-furnished private quarters. She was sitting in a chair by the cot in her shirt and loosened tie, her jacket lying at the foot of the bed, her hand pressing a wet cloth to her head. "Close the door," she said, and he did.

"Here, I got the ice," he said, and hurried forward, sitting on the edge of her bed. She tilted her head forward and he parted the mass of wet dark hair to see a red bump that was bleeding—not much at all, but it was there. "Jeez, Peggy, I'm sorry," he said contritely, and pressed the ice to her head.

She hissed a little but relaxed after a second. "It's all right," she said. "No harm done."

"Guess I move faster than normal even when I'm not trying," he said.

"It rather felt like hitting a brick wall," she said with a faint tinge of amusement in her voice.

"I'm not _that_ wide," he joked.

"Could have fooled me," she tossed back, and peered up at him with a small grin.

Something twisted in the pit of his stomach. "We're not going to get in trouble, are we?" he asked. "I mean, being in a room together. I mean—I mean, you being a da—a lady, and all."

She chuckled. "This isn't Catholic school, Steve. Besides the fact that this hall is virtually unoccupied save for myself and a few other agents—who, by the way, all prefer to spend their nights downtown—nobody much cares what you or I do off the clock, or who is in whose room."

"Oh," said Steve.

"Now, the camp—that was a different story. But here, no. Last week Agent MacPherson had two call girls in his quarters and nobody batted an eyelash."

Steve went hot all over. "With you right here?"

"Of course. If I didn't think I could navigate the world of men--or the world of the military for that matter, I certainly wouldn't have been interested in working for the SSR." She straightened up and looked at him, her wet hair hanging in her face.

Steve reached out almost unconsciously and tucked it behind her ear. She blinked. "Sorry," he said, flushing crimson again and fighting the urge to sit on his hands.

"It's all right," she said, but her voice had lost its crisp quality and softened into something else entirely. "I think—if you'd like to put away the ice—"

"It's melted," said Steve, his heart threatening to jump through his rib cage.

"Ah," she said, and he was staring at her red lips, thinking of how very much he'd like to sketch them, when she leaned forward and put a hand on his knee, just where his thigh began. 

It was like a switch had been flipped, like his skin was suddenly overly sensitive to everything. He could feel the scratch of the heavy cotton shirt, the twill trousers, the tightness of his tie and the constricting pressure of his Class A jacket. Everything in him was focused on the hand on his thigh, and he couldn’t fight the tight, trembly sensation in his gut or the sudden surge of pressure between his legs. Her fingernails were enameled red, red as her lips, red as his own blood--

Peggy was saying something and he had no idea what it was. She could have been reciting nursery rhymes for all he knew. "Huh?" he managed to stammer out, before she mercifully removed her hand from his leg and he felt like he could breathe again.

"Sensitivity," she said.

"What?" he said.

"You. You're oversensitive in almost every way. Are noises louder than usual?"

"Yeah, come to think of it."

"And the lights?"

"Too bright," he said.

"Your sensory perception is overloaded. I shouldn't have—I'm sorry." She motioned toward his lap.

"Oh," he said, bright red again. "No, no, don't worry about that. Not your fault."

"What?" she said.

"What?" he echoed, and then realized she was talking about touching his leg and he thought she was talking about…something else entirely. "Oh. No. Damn. Forget about it."

"Steve—" Realization broke over her face and she glanced at his crotch. "Oh. I see." 

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he said, truly red in the face. "Please don't ever even look at me again, this is just embarrassing."

She held up her hands in mock surrender. "I make no promises. I'd rather like to continue looking at you, though."

"You—" He looked up and she was smiling, a gleam of mischief in her eyes. "You're teasing me."

"Absolutely. Well, I'm sure that's nothing you can't, ah, take care of yourself, so I suppose I shall leave you to it."

"Um," he said awkwardly, and wanted to punch himself for even saying anything about it.

"Hmm?" she asked.

"I don't. I—never—" He wanted to crawl under her bed and hide forever. He wanted a hole to open in the floor and swallow him whole.

"Never?" she asked, one perfect eyebrow raised.

"Never," he said, and decided, what the hell, he'd soldier on. "I—my ma got sick right around the time I—that sort of thing usually—starts happening, and I was so preoccupied that I never—and I was always tired and sick, all the time, so I didn't—and, uh, after she died, the war started, and I was trying to—what I'm saying is—you know I never danced, but I never even, uh, put on my dancing shoes."

"Well, you certainly didn’t have a very physically healthy childhood, so that doesn't surprise me, really," said Peggy after an awkward silence.

"And all the nuns and such said if you did, you'd die or your, uh, your johnson would fall off. So that was incentive enough for me, I guess." Steve rubbed his nose.

Peggy looked at him for a very long time. The she stood up, crossed the room, and locked the door.

Steve shifted uncomfortably as she came back to the bed and sat down on the chair. She leaned down and removed her left shoe, then her right. "What are you doing?" he asked nervously.

"Taking off my shoes," she said innocently, and stood, undoing her tie and tossing it onto the bed.

"Are you—are we—" he stuttered, and she nodded.

"Of course, only what you'd like to do. I'd recommend taking your shoes off as well. Probably your jacket too."

Steve toed off his shoes and got out of his jacket as fast as he could, his hands shaking and too big. Peggy waited in her nylons and skirt and shirt until he was down to his shirt and trousers, and then she slowly leaned forward into his space, planted both hands firmly on the bed, and kissed him on the mouth.

Every thought in Steve's head dissipated into frantic white noise. He grabbed for her, pulled her onto his lap, and kept kissing her while his hands gripped her firm, thick thigh and her trim waist. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He wanted to touch her everywhere at once. Her waxy lipstick tasted like vanilla. He wanted it on his face, he wanted her, he wanted—

"Gently, please," she gasped, and the white noise dulled a little as he loosened his grip on her.

"Sorry," he panted.

"I'm not made of china," she said with a smile, and he saw to his satisfaction he'd smeared her lipstick across her cheek. "But don't get too rough."

"I don't," he said, and tried to breathe while he sorted out his sentence. "I want to see you."

"So see me," she said, and he reached up and unbuttoned her shirt with the utmost care, pushing it off her shoulders and exposing her satin brassiere, which he let her remove (because he had no idea how they went on and off, that was her business) before he drank in the sight of her breasts, soft and white with pale little nipples that he inexplicably wanted to suck on.

"Oh god," she said breathlessly as he buried his face in her chest. She laced her fingers through his hair and gasped and giggled as he sucked and nipped and licked at her breasts, as his hands came up and squeezed and touched and teased. "Steve," she moaned, and he pulled back to see her flushed, wet hair stuck to her face.

Steve got an idea, then, one he'd picked up in some blue magazine somewhere. He stood up, lifting her, and turned her around and set her down so that she was sitting on the bed and he was by the chair, and he got down on his knees and lifted her skirt.

The anticipating shudder that ran up her legs spoke more than words ever could. Steve traced up her calves, up to her garter, and undid her nylons, rolling them down and setting them on the chair.

"Steve," she said again, sounding small and desperate.

"Yeah, Peggy?" he asked, looking up over the hem of her skirt.

"I thought you said you'd never—" she cut herself off, biting her lip as his fingers brushed across the front of her panties.

"I haven’t. Doesn’t mean I can’t read, though." Steve kissed her knee. "Blue shops are very informative." He kissed her thigh, his head under her skirt and between her legs. "If you know what you're looking for, anyway," he said, right under the front of her garter belt, and she audibly moaned.

"Please," she said, and he grinned to himself and exhaled a few times, just to tease, and when she lost patience and kicked at him with her heels he finally pulled her panties to the side and laid a full kiss on her nethers, tongue and all.

She went rigid like she'd been shocked, and jerked around desperately for a few short minutes before kicking him off, tearing her skirt off, and dragging him back where he belonged. Steve kissed and licked and sucked, following her half-whispered instructions, for almost four minutes before the hand in his hair tightened hard and she shuddered, grinding into his face before going limp and boneless on the bed.

"Was that--was that it?" he asked, pulling away and wiping his mouth.

"Uh-huh," she managed.

"I wanted to see you," he said, a little disappointed.

She pushed herself up on her elbows and raked her hair out of her eyes. "Next time," she said hoarsely, and reached for his fly, undoing the button and unzipping him with deft hands. "I'd like to be introduced properly to Mr. Johnson." 

Steve flushed and crawled closer on his knees, steadying himself on the metal framework of the headboard as she tugged his trousers down and ran her fingers up the underside of his swollen cock, pressed flat between his belly and his skivvies.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he choked, and unconsciously jerked toward her.

"Steady, soldier," she said, and reached up to kiss him while her warm hand dipped under the elastic waistband and gripped his dick.

Steve almost bit her. "Oh, God," he gasped, and pressed his cheek to hers, shaking as she whispered soft words and curled her fingers, pulling and stroking. "Aaah, aah, God—"

"I know what you need," she said, and pushed off the bed, hurrying to the chest at the foot. Steve sat there, dazed, for a second before taking advantage of her absence and shucking off his remaining clothes while she came up with a tub of Vaseline.

" _Oh_ ," she said rather breathily, stopping short and staring at the entirety of his naked body in frank appreciation.

For once, he didn't blush.

Peggy took off her garter belt and underwear and crawled across the bed to him, slicking her hand and gripping him again. He arched his back and groaned and his toes curled. "Ohhh, god," he panted.

"You want me to drag it out or make it fast?" she asked. "Either way, I haven't got a rubber. If this is all right, that is."

He whimpered. "Don't make me choose, Peggy. _Jesus_. I need—I—"

"All right. Tell me what to do, tell me what feels better or worse." Her hand started moving, from base to tip, twisting slightly at the top. "Good?"

"Holy God. You've—done this before—" he gasped, and she laughed.

"Breathe, Steve." Her hand was relentless, and eventually she took him in both and _that,_ that was an experience, tight and warm and slick. He tried to hold himself together, but he gave up after a few seconds of that. His gut was tightening, his balls aching, his entire body on fire. He reached up and gripped the metal rods of the headboard, anything to hold on to, to ground himself.

"Please," he begged. "l gotta—"

"All right," she said firmly, and quickened her strokes to hard, short jerks until he couldn't stand it and everything, everything rose to a head until he was wound tight as a string, every muscle taut, and then that was that and he was over the edge and coming, gasping, helpless in her hands. Huge thick spurts of white spunk coated her hand and his belly and his chest. One hit him across the chin and neck. Peggy didn’t let up until he was done, and then she kissed his knee, went to the basin by the wall, and wet a cloth, wiping him down.

Steve groggily sat up, sleepy and wrung out. "No, no, let me clean you up," he said, and doggedly staggered to the basin on legs that felt like they were made of rubber, coming back with a clean cloth and wiping her down gently from chest to knee.

"Thank you," she said gently, and kissed him again. Then, "I'm going to have to answer some very interesting questions about the state of my bed."

He turned and realized that he'd snapped the thick iron rod of the headboard completely in two and bent the supporting rods out of shape. "When did I do that?"

"When you climaxed, I believe." Peggy said primly. "Don't bother about it. Never liked that thing anyway."

Steve turned pink and rolled over onto his side. Peggy lay down behind him and tucked her forehead into the hollow of his neck. "I'll kick you out at oh-four-hundred. You're staying with me tonight."

"Yeah, I think you might just be concussed after all," he said with a grin.

"Oh, shut up," she said, laughing, and kissed his shoulder blade. Neither of them moved to turn off the light.

"I don't suppose there's a chaplain or a priest here," Steve said drowsily after a few minutes. 

"Whatever for?" she asked, faint shock in her voice and her body gone tense.

"For confession. What did you think I wanted a priest for?" Steve rolled onto his back and peered at her curiously.

"Oh, dear God," said Peggy faintly and covered her face, flushed to the ears. "I thought--you know, so many young people go mad for each other and, well, it's wartime and all, and, well--you know the rate of young people getting, getting, ah, married--"

"Oh," said Steve. "Oh. OH." 

She smothered her sudden fit of giggles in the blanket on the bed. "Steve, if you do ever propose to a woman, make sure she's not naked as the day she was born in a barracks on base, please."

"I--" said Steve hesitantly, and turned his face towards hers, searching, asking a hundred questions without saying a word. 

She pretended not to hear them. He saw it in her face. "I shouldn't have said anything. Goodnight, Steve," she said firmly, and turned the light out, drawing the blankets over them both and going quite still.

"Are you still awake?" she whispered a few minutes later into the dark.

His only response was a soft noise, a shift in weight, and a cold nose pressed into her chest.

Peggy Carter smiled where nobody could see, and allowed herself to think about white silk and roses and the war finally being over--and the endless possibilities of the future, stretching out before her, trailing away into the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first draft of this as a drabble and sent it to my boyfriend, who is my biggest writing enabler as well as being my Cap. He adored it beyond words and told me to publish it, so here it is, spruced up for you all. 
> 
> The title is Irish Gaelic: "red as my heart's blood."


End file.
